


magic touch

by angelzoo (shades_0f_cool)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Banter, Bathtubs, Body Appreciation, Canon Universe, Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Foot Massage, Hair-pulling, Humor, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Pining, Romance, Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Witcher Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shades_0f_cool/pseuds/angelzoo
Summary: They’re only eyes, for Heaven’s sake. Granted, they’re extraordinary eyes, and there’s this bold intensity to them that commands attention, thatmakesyou look.Now if Jaskier could onlystoplooking.Instead, he holds Geralt’s gaze and puts his feelings into words. “It’s all in your eyes. The perpetual loneliness and quiet longing for refined company. I’m your best friend, how could I refuse such an overt supplication?”Now with amazing fanart for chapter two by @snovaaprel!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 396
Kudos: 4223
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is mainly based on the TV show, but seeing as I’ve been in this fandom for quite some time now, I’m sure several details from the books and video games managed to sneak in. Not so many that it gets confusing for anyone who’s only seen the show, though. Just letting you guys know :) enjoy!

It’s week three in the Swamps of Sadness, alternatively titled, Velen or the much more suitable _No Man’s Land_ , and Jaskier is starting to question what or who he has done wrong to deserve treading this diabolical speck of land wearing midnight blue velvet and the really nice pair of shoes. 

“Watch out. Mud,” Geralt says and watches Jaskier step into said mud, smack dab in the middle of it with a graceful _splat_. The stuff seems to be springing up like mushrooms around here, and in the middle of the road no less. Alright, the very vestigial road, but still, even a dump like Velen can be expected to offer its travelers some basic comforts, right? 

Wrong.

Jaskier looks up at Geralt where he’s sitting comfortably on his horse all raised eyebrow and smug ‘I told you so’ expression on his face, and realizes that’s the answer to his question: here is who he has apparently done wrong. 

“Remind me again,” Jaskier says while he’s hopping on one leg trying to scrape the mud out of his now-soaked shoe. “Why exactly did you make me come with you?” 

Geralt almost snorts. He doesn’t of course, not really, but he’s got the look, the wrinkled nose and the eye roll and Jaskier is getting quite good at reading him if he does say so himself. Geralt is a witcher after all, and reading those? Well-nigh impossible. Jaskier’s got a theory that one must be in possession of certain qualities to accomplish it. Like best friend qualities. 

“I did not make you come with me. You insisted.” 

There’s a quiet _as always_ tucked at the end there, but Geralt doesn’t voice it, and Gods, Jaskier is glad for small favors. Nine times out of ten, he’s quite certain Geralt considers their friendship to be of inestimable value. He just does a poor job expressing it, devoid of all human emotion as he is. But then there’s this one time Geralt plays it really well—the wicked, unapproachable witcher who doesn’t need anything but the swords on his back and the magic in his veins—he plays it so well, Jaskier almost believes it. 

“Oh, but you did make me. It’s in your eyes.” This is the part where he does _not_ look into Geralt’s eyes, because looking into Geralt’s eyes does things to him, bad things. Strange things. Things that make his heart pound and his toes curl and his cheeks flush. He bites his lip and chances a look, just a sidelong glance, and almost gasps when the full force of Geralt’s eyes meet his. It happens again on the spot, the heart pounding, the toe curling, the cheek flushing. It’s maddening. They’re only eyes, for Heaven’s sake. Granted, they’re extraordinary eyes, and there’s this bold intensity to them that commands attention, that _makes_ you look. 

Now if Jaskier could only _stop_ looking. 

Instead, he holds Geralt’s gaze and puts his feelings into words. “It’s all in your eyes. The perpetual loneliness and quiet longing for refined company. I’m your best friend, how could I refuse such an overt supplication?” 

Now Geralt _does_ snort. Jaskier manages to catch a glimpse of the unintentional pout of his lips before it’s gone and turns away to hide a smile in his collar. It still feels special, coaxing a thing that’s so undeniably human out of Geralt. It will probably never stop feeling special. 

* * *

Three hours later, things have taken a turn for the worse. The way worse, according to Geralt. Jaskier guesses it’s quite an understandable notion, considering his foot got slashed by a water hag’s claws and has since turned an interesting shade of blue, but hey, at least it has stopped hurting. Now it’s just numb, and Jaskier tells Geralt as much when he asks after it for the third time in as many minutes. 

“That’s not a good thing, Jaskier,” Geralt huffs. 

Jaskier begs to differ, since his current situation has earned him a spot on Roach, with his back to Geralt’s front. 

_Gods_.

Yes. 

He’s so close, Jaskier can feel the heat radiating off of him; can feel the clasp of his thighs where they’re pressed flush against his own. He ponders whether witchers run hot on default. He ponders how much he’d like to find out. In this position, he could, if he just—if he _just . . ._

“What are you doing.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but then again, Geralt’s tone leaving much to be desired is pretty much par for the course.

Jaskier blinks up from where he’s tucked his face into Geralt’s neck on his mission to assess a witcher’s body temperature for . . . purely scientific reasons. 

There are many answers he could present Geralt with, _safe_ answers. ‘Sorry, dozed off there’ comes to mind. Or even ‘nothing’. But Jaskier—for some inexplicable, borderline suicidal reason—smiles and goes with, “Checking if you’re really that hot. You are.”

Well, fuck. Who’s short of a marble now? 

“Er,” Jaskier starts, his head doing cartwheels trying to figure out the magic word that will somehow salvage this mess. “I mean . . . _you_.”

And somehow, this is what he gets stuck on, because there’s so much in that single word; like Geralt’s eyes and his hair and his body and his scent, which Jaskier’s gotten an incredibly profound whiff of when he’d buried his face in the surprisingly soft skin of Geralt’s neck mere moments ago. Gods, he wants to do it again; wants to wrap himself in Geralt’s bouquet of sandalwood and cardamom and just slumber in his arms to the _clip clop_ of Roach’s hooves beneath them. Geralt, to the surprise of absolutely no one, has other plans.

“The water hag’s poison is getting to you,” he says, and Jaskier hates how much sense that makes. “There’s a town up ahead. We’ll find an inn to spend the night and then I’ll see to your injury. I have a healing ointment that should help.”

Seeing as the ‘water hag’s poison is getting to him’, Jaskier deems it perfectly acceptable to drop back against Geralt’s chest and close his eyes for a while.

* * *

“Jaskier? Jaskier, wake up.”

There are lips at his ear and warm breath on his skin and a gentle hand on his arm—in short, everything that makes for a scenario he most certainly does _not_ want to wake up from. 

“Jaskier!” 

He jolts awake with a gasp, and almost falls off Roach’s back if it weren’t for the steel rods Geralt has for arms. Thinking about it, he’s never liked steel rods more than he does right now. 

“Yes, sir!” he says, blushing. “I—uh, I’m awake.”

“Are you going to fall if I get off?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier gives the question some serious thought. He feels light, too light, and his heart is pounding. His foot is now hurting something fierce inside his slashed shoe, but he thinks he can manage on his own for, like, three seconds. 

“No, I don’t think so,” he answers slowly. “As long as you stay close enough for me to lean on you? I don’t think I can walk on _that_.”

He nods to his injured foot and watches Geralt’s eyes grow wide when they settle on it, which does not bode well. His quietly muttered _shit_ makes it even worse. 

Geralt jumps off Roach’s back, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Jaskier reaches out his arms for support, but Geralt puts an arm around his back and the other under his thigh and lifts him clear off the horse as if he weighs nothing at all. As a result, Jaskier’s nose brushes Geralt’s cheek and his hand curls into the soft leather part of his armor. 

“Wow, that was—” Jaskier starts, utterly out of breath. 

“—necessary,” Geralt finishes for him, which Jaskier guesses is a passable reply for Geralt, but surely not how he would have described being swept off horseback by this magnificent specimen of male arms. 

It’s odd sometimes, life. Today is the day he might succumb to some nondescript Necrophage poison and die an inglorious death without having gone down in history as the best bard on the Continent, and yet he wouldn’t change a thing. _It’s the arms,_ he thinks as Geralt carries him across the threshold of the inn. _They’re worth it._

The innkeeper throws them several dubious looks at first, before he gives up the pretense and just segues to blatant staring. People do that. It’s nothing new. Jaskier completely understands; he’s been there. Witchers have become a rarity since the schools stopped training them, and with their sinister reputation and ominous aura, you would be hard-pressed not to at least sneak a peek. And then, of course, this is not just any old Witcher. This is Geralt of Rivia, who is—aside from being known as The White Wolf around these parts—pretty much what qualifies as a feast for the eyes. Now cue in the half-dead bard in his arms, and chances are you’re set for a highly interesting story to go with your nightcap of ale. That’s what the patrons must think, considering the inn has grown suspiciously quiet and Jaskier can feel dozens of eyes on them. 

“Two rooms please,” Geralt says in his least threatening voice, making Jaskier smile. That’s his doing right there. The endless hours of teaching Geralt manners while they were on the road together are finally paying off. 

“Sorry,” the innkeeper says, not sounding sorry at all. “Just got one left.” 

Jaskier bites his lip. That’s that, then. Another night in the wilderness. Geralt acts like he can barely stand sharing a blanket with Jaskier, surely he would not want to share a—

Geralt looks down at Jaskier and even his thought process comes to a standstill, not to mention his breathing. All of his senses hone in on those damned beautiful amber eyes and the barely-there imploration in them when Geralt asks, “Sharing a room alright?”

Alright? Yes, it’s alright. You know, alright, or maybe more like spectacular. 

Jaskier nods by way of reply, because he doesn’t trust his voice not to do something utterly stupid like moan out a breathy _yes, Geralt._ It’s the poison. The water hag poison. It’s getting to him. 

“You alright standing on your own? You can lean on me.”

Jaskier nods again and braces for the cold reality that’s life outside of Geralt’s arms. Standing on his own is hard, much harder than anticipated. Almost instantly, he takes Geralt up on his offer and leans against him while he retrieves several coins to pay for the room. 

The innkeeper nods and hands them the key. “It’s upstairs, last room on the right.”

Jaskier sighs inwardly. _Upstairs_. _Last room._ That sounds like fun. He tries his foot and barely suppresses a pained groan in response. 

“Don’t aggravate it,” Geralt commands, glaring at him. 

“Trying,” he replies. Damn playing tough, this _hurts._

“Come on,” Geralt says. And steps closer. And does it again, the swooping Jaskier into his arms thing, and Jaskier groans for real then, though that one’s got only little to do with pain. Unless pain from his ongoing dry spell counts. 

Way too soon, they reach their assigned room, where Jaskier’s set down once more so that Geralt can unlock the door. Geralt helps him inside, leading him over to sit on top of the threadbare quilt thrown over the bed. 

The bed, singular. As in the _one_ bed. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier swallows. “There’s only one bed.”

“I’m aware,” Geralt says as he unfastens his swords from around his back and puts them on top of the small table in the corner. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

On the—

“I’m going down to get the ointment. Stay here.” 

Well. Not many places he can go with a foot like that now, are there? Jaskier sighs and leans back on his hands. When he brings up a hand to brush his hair away from his forehead, he finds his skin hot to the touch and damp with sweat, despite the chill that seems to burrow into his very bones. So, he’s running a fever. Probably not a good sign. 

He won’t panic. That’s about the last thing they need. He’s just going to stay here, like Geralt said, and trust that his friend is as good at healing as he is at witching. 

Jaskier opens his eyes to calloused fingertips poking his cheek and Geralt whispering his name. 

“Hello,” Jaskier murmurs, leaning into the touch in a way he likes to think passes for imperceptible. 

Geralt’s mouth quirks up the tiniest bit at the corners; his almost-smile. “Hello.”

“Geralt, I don’t feel so good.”

The almost-smile drops instantly. “I’m going to remove your shoe and sock and start rubbing the salve on. I won’t lie, this is going to hurt. A lot.”

Jaskier smiles, a fragile twitch of a thing. “What do you mean, treating the poisonous Necrophage gash is not painless?” he gasps in mock indignation. “I figured as much. Do what you have to.” 

Geralt wraps his hand around the sole of the boot and tilts it to the left to look at the claw-shaped gash running down its side. Then he retrieves a knife from somewhere and brings it to Jaskier’s boot, which _hold on._

“W-What are you doing?” he half-screeches. Or actually, there’s no _half_ about this particular screech. “This is genuine sheepskin suede from Redania, Geralt!” 

Geralt gives him The Look. The one he used to give him at every turn back when they first met; the one that says ‘I’m about _this_ close to cutting you down with silver’. In a fond way, of course. 

“Are you serious?” Geralt asks, voice soft and sharp at the same time, like silk over steel. “I’m trying to save your life and you’re moaning about your damn shoe?”

Well, alright. It does sound a little ludicrous put like that, but this pair of shoes is a masterpiece. A masterpiece from home; the _only_ thing he still has from home. He can see that the shoe’s ruined now that the water hag has had a turn with it, but delivering the _coup de grâce_ right here in Nowhere Town, Velen?

“Alright,” he concedes after a moment, trying not to sulk and failing. “If you must.”

“Glad to see there’s still some sense left in you.”

Jaskier doesn’t deign that with a response. Instead he watches Geralt’s knife-wielding like a hawk. He is pretty good at it, that much Jaskier has to admit. So careful, the way he’s slicing the soft leather apart inch by inch, never once grazing the skin beneath it. 

Finally the shoe comes off, reduced to a shadow of its former self. Geralt raises an eyebrow at Jaskier, who snorts and looks away. 

“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier can actually _hear_ the smirk in his voice. Damned witcher, not understanding the first thing about sentiments.

“And how!” Jaskier exclaims. “You took my best shoe, you bastard. You better believe I’m writing a song. The world needs to hear about this.” 

Geralt’s smirk intensifies. “About how I killed your best shoe?” 

“Yes. No. About your inability to appreciate the fine art of clothing. You are a brute,Geralt of Rivia. And you owe me.”

Geralt harrumphs and snatches Jaskier’s sock away in another display of his brutish ways, making Jaskier yelp. 

“And you are a nuisance,” Geralt retorts, without any real bite to it.

“Oh, please. It’s called spicing up your sad, lonely witcher life and you love it.”

“I suppose there’s a grain of truth in that,” Geralt replies, and then they’re both smirking at each other.

They pause the medical procedure for a moment then, and Jaskier releases a long, heartfelt sigh. And to think this is only the beginning. 

“Alright?” Geralt asks. 

“Mhm. Sorry,” Jaskier answers, trying for sheepish. “I’m not usually such a sissy.”

Geralt smiles, a real one, and Jaskier can’t help but offhandedly return it. It’s like one of those surprise attacks that are entirely unpredictable and leave you on your back staring up at the ceiling, stunned. 

“You are,” Geralt says.

“And I’m working on it, thank you very much.”

Jaskier likes to think there’s no real preparation for what happens next. It’s messy and arduous and painful. He gives up on playing tough about four minutes in, from which point onwards his only goal is not to burst into tears under Geralt’s watchful eye. 

“It’s not as bad as I thought,” Geralt says a little later as he’s turning Jaskier’s foot this way and that. “The swelling has not progressed into irreversible territory yet, see?” 

Well, actually, Jaskier had hoped he could get away without looking. The way it feels, it can only look ghastly, and he’s not sure he wants to add the visual image to his already woozy head. But Geralt’s kneeling on the floor in front of him, eyes fixed on his, Jaskier’s foot cradled in his lap almost delicately. Add the seductive play of light and shadow from the nearby candles flickering over his face, and Jaskier finds that there is absolutely no way he could ever deny him what he wants. So, he looks. And promptly goes into shock.

“By the Gods, I thought you said it wasn’t as bad as you thought? This doesn’t look like it. This looks pretty damn bad to me.” 

The skin of his foot is a disturbing mix of colors; greens and grays blending into blues and purples all the way up to mid-calf. It looks necrotic, like a—a Necrophage. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier begins, steeling himself. “Just tell me. Am I turning into a water hag?”

Geralt snorts, only briefly looking up from stirring the salve. “No. I assure you, you are not turning into a water hag.”

Jaskier tries wiggling his toes, which—considering his foot is still resting in Geralt’s lap—makes Geralt raise a speculative eyebrow at him. Jaskier blushes and focuses on the bowl of sweet-smelling ointment in Geralt’s hands. 

“How do you know? I mean, I’m starting to look like one.”

“Well, for one, water hag poison doesn’t turn you into one of them. It just kills you. And for another, you most definitely don’t look like a water hag. I would know.”

Jaskier feels the inexplicable urge to reach up and smooth his hair. “Really?”

“Really. You’re still you. Still handsome.” 

And then he winks. It’s fleeting, over before Jaskier can affirm it really happened, and—and Geralt _winked._ At _him._ Jaskier can’t decide if this is the best or the weirdest day of his life. 

“Ready for me to apply this?” Geralt asks all businesslike. He’s just winked at Jaskier, how can he be so unaffected? Especially when Jaskier is so affected? 

“Yes. Go ahead.”

And he does. It’s not long before Jaskier’s squirming and whimpering; partly due to the pain that’s bordering on unbearable and partly due to watching Geralt’s fingers on his toes, his instep, his ankle; rubbing, touching, caressing. It’s just treating an injury, but there’s something undeniably intimate about the whole thing; about the delicate movements Geralt’s using on his skin, about the way he’s bent over on his knees, his lips so close Jaskier can feel the warm puffs of air against his bare skin; about how Jaskier’s willing to deal with the pain if this is what he gets in return. 

“Ow. _Fuck.”_ Gasp. Moan. “Ah—oh, Gods. _Geralt.”_

Geralt draws a deep breath and lets off from where he’s been prodding at Jaskier’s injury. He’s sitting back on his heels and lifts his hand in front of Jaskier’s face, fingers poised in the shape of _Axii_. 

“May I?” His voice sounds breathy and a little rough around the edges. “Make this easier on both of us?”

Jaskier doesn’t usually like being on the receiving end of one of Geralt’s Signs. It messes with his head, especially _Axii,_ damn mind control magic. But he’s since come to trust Geralt with his life, so he trusts that he’d not suggest subjecting him to it without good reason. So he nods and keeps his eyes open despite the initial urge to close them. There’s something in Geralt’s eyes whenever he uses magic; something fierce and elegant, and if Jaskier has to bear with letting a witcher into his head, he ought to at least get a consolation prize out of it. 

Seeing Geralt’s eyes light up, warming from amber to liquid gold for the moment it takes him to cast the Sign is prize enough. 

The Sign wraps him in the softest blanket tailor-made just for him, back-stitched with Geralt’s magic and lined with his scent. The tension bleeds out of Jaskier’s muscles almost instantly, and he can finally take a deep breath without any subsequent pain. His eyelids flutter shut and his lips part on a soft exhale. “Oh, wow, that’s—that’s actually really . . .”

He moans in lieu of finishing what he meant to say and slumps back on the bed. 

From somewhere close by, he hears Geralt chuckling. “It’s actually really _what,_ Jaskier? I think you were about to say something nice about me.”

Jaskier sighs, long and low. “About your _magic_ , Geralt. Just your magic. And if you must know: I might have fallen in love with it. Only a little.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments mean the world to me. ❤


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this story took on a life of its own. It just got longer and longer, so when I passed 7k words, I decided to split what was supposed to be the second and final chapter into two. I hope you don’t mind. The last chapter will be up soon :) as always, a massive thank you to everyone who reads, comments and leaves kudos! You’re the best. <3

When Jaskier comes to, it’s to a room clad in shadows and no Geralt. The nearby candles are burning low and the bustling in the inn has whittled down to quiet murmuring and the occasional drunk roar of laughter. Jaskier is curled up under the covers of the— _his? their?_ —bed, his injured foot neatly wrapped in clean bandages and propped up on a small pillow by the foot of the bed. A faint echo of pain throbbing beneath his skin is what remains of the earlier ordeal, which is, quite frankly, astonishing. Maybe Geralt’s Sign is still working its magic. Or his healing abilities are worthy of some badge of honor, something meaningful, like a song. Oh, Geralt would just love that. 

Jaskier’s chuckle turns into a yawn before he can savor the idea. He brings his hands up to rub the sleep out of his eyes, stretches a little. Wiggles his fully functional toes. Everything considered, he feels good. Really good. Who knew Geralt had it in him? Truth be told, he doesn’t exactly create the impression of the nurse-back-to-health type. More the leave-for-dead type. Just goes to show how deceiving appearances are, and that’s just the thing with Geralt, isn’t it?

Jaskier lies back and allows his overzealous brain a replay of recent events. That is, as always, potentially dangerous considering the tiny little fact where he likes Geralt. _Likes_ likes him. Quiet pining? Bad idea, very bad idea, but here he is, about to do it. Again. This time though, he’ll do better, because contrary to popular belief, he does learn from his mistakes. This time, he will just rehash trickles of it, like how it felt riding with Geralt pressed against his back, the little wrinkle of concern between his eyebrows when Jaskier was injured, being in his arms, _twice,_ Geralt’s fingers working ointment into his foot with the softest hint of touch. Just this once, he’ll pine, then he will let it go. He’s not hurting anyone but himself after all.

It’s quite a long list of good deeds Geralt has done in one day, especially for someone who’s said to be devoid of human emotion. Which, yes, Jaskier knows is bullshit, but that doesn’t mean Geralt is openly parading whatever is going on beneath that thick skin of his. The most he will do is reveal bits and pieces, ephemeral flashes of fear (see exhibit one: Geralt freezing for about 0.3 seconds with this look of utter horror on his face as a forktail landed just behind Jaskier, poised to smash him to pieces with its tail when they were traveling north of Novigrad), delight (exhibit two: Geralt laughing out loud over Jaskier bashing an innocent troll on the head with his lute, because he’ll swear to his dying day, _it_ _came out of nowhere_ and he was just saving their lives), even lust. 

Yes, Jaskier also has an exhibit for that. 

* * *

It was a few weeks ago while they were out on a contract for an ice giant on the Skellige Isles. Now, Skellige is always cold, but Urialla? _Cold_ cold. They had set up camp for the night in a small alcove protected from the wind all the way up by Yngvar’s Fang. Jaskier had been out venturing for a replenishment of firewood when he saw her. In hindsight (and because Geralt has told him only about a _dozen_ times), he should have known better than to approach a young woman with wings. And scales. And a three-meter long tail. Whatever, he didn’t. She was a thing of beauty, also naked, and Jaskier was a young man blessed with boundless virility and an exceptionally gifted tongue. 

“Hello,” he had said, donning the best version of his roguish smile. “You have a magnificent voice.”

 _Duh._ She was a siren. Geralt had a field day when he heard. It was awful. 

The siren had turned, looked Jaskier up and down with huge, cornflower blue eyes, raised her hand and—

—slashed the front of Jaskier clothes, from his shoulder all the way down to his thigh. Jaskier remembers watching as his jacquard doublet and the silk tunic beneath fell away from his body like a paper cut; remembers thinking “wow, you’re not missing out on anything, are you”.

He felt like the luckiest man on Skellige, at least until the girl attacked him—not a sexual attack, more like an _attack_ attack—and he had to make a run for their camp, which is far from easy when you’re trying protect your modesty with scraps of clothes while you’re on a mad dash to survive.

“Geralt!” he had screamed when the dying campfire came into view. _“Geralt!”_

Geralt, already out of armor, had sat up on his blanket, assessed the situation and killed the siren with a single stroke of his sword.

While he was wiping the blood off the blade with a cloth after, he’d looked at Jaskier. And looked. And _looked._

“Your nipples are showing.” 

Jaskier had waved his hand. “Oh, this? New trend from Toussaint. I hear it’s all the rage right now. Do you like it?”

Geralt did his habitual _hmm_ and pretended to look away. Except he didn’t. Jaskier felt his eyes on him, lingering not only a little too long, but just too long, period. 

Jaskier had laughed, exhilarated and breathless. “So you do like it.” 

Geralt had huffed and sat down, said, “Get dressed. It’s cold”, and started tinkering with a bottle of sword oil that needed absolutely no tinkering with. Jaskier knew, if Geralt would be physically able to blush, _this_ was where he would. 

And Jaskier would be responsible for it. It would be for him. 

Jaskier had bitten his lip to keep the emotions at bay. If Geralt looked at him now, he would know. He would read it in his face like an open book—how he was dying to touch him, just reach out and run his fingers through that pretty mess of gray hair.

He had taken his sweet time finding another set of clothes to wear, and Geralt had continued to be affected. It got colder as the night progressed, and Jaskier’s body reacted to it; especially his lips, his nipples, the soft skin where his thighs met his behind. Geralt could barely stop staring. His eyes were bright, intense, unblinking, _there,_ always. Jaskier had never been fond of the cold, but this was worth it. Every last goosebump. 

It was a game; every carefully executed movement of Jaskier’s body made to chip away at Geralt’s steely resolve. Advance. Retreat. Push. Pull. 

The fun had come to an abrupt end when Jaskier’s teeth began to chatter. He’d been so intent on teasing Geralt, he’d failed to notice how cold he had gotten while he was at it. So, his teeth. They were what broke the spell, what made Geralt curse and come over to wrap a thick woolen blanket around Jaskier and cast another _Igni_ to fan the fire. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier had whispered, barely audible, when they were both lying in their respective bedrolls around the fire. He had half-wished Geralt wouldn’t hear, because then he wouldn’t bring himself to say it again. He wouldn’t ask. 

But he heard. Of course he did. “Yes?”

“I . . .” Deep breath. _Don’t,_ he had thought, _don’t ask. Be strong._

He had turned his head, had met Geralt’s attentive gaze, and knew he would be weak. He would be weak again.

“I’m still cold. Would you mind—you know?” he had breathed, and hated himself for it. It would be pure bliss for one night, until he woke up to find Geralt gone in the morning, leaving Jaskier with nothing but another achingly beautiful memory to cling to. 

It had been quiet for a moment then. Jaskier had closed his eyes, nuzzled into the soft blanket that smelled like Roach and warm smoke. When he had reopened them, Geralt was slipping into his bedroll, his strong arms pulling Jaskier against his chest. It had been tight, almost too tight, and Jaskier loved it, loved every dizzying second of it. 

“Better?” Geralt had asked quietly, his breath brushing through Jaskier’s hair, caressing the tip of his ear. 

“Yes,” Jaskier had said through the tears on his lips. “Much better.”

* * *

Jaskier resurfaces from the memory with a jolt. He blinks once, twice, tries to get his breathing back under control. 

He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, smiles a wobbly smile.

 _Shit._

He’s doing it again. The thing, the pesky little thing where he’s reading meaning into things where there is no meaning to be read into, like the edge of softness clinging to Geralt’s voice when he says Jaskier’s name or the way he’s holding him a little tighter than usual when they’re forced to huddle for warmth around the campfire. 

Jaskier is not going to go there again. He’s _been_ there, about a million times, and it’s never turned out in his favor. Geralt doesn’t feel that way about him. He never will. 

Jaskier’s perfectly fine with . . .

He’s good with . . . 

He can deal with it . . . 

Alright, so maybe it hurts. Maybe it hurts more than it doesn’t, maybe he falls asleep thinking about Geralt only to wake up dreaming about Geralt. Maybe he can barely look at him without sparking the immediate and very acute urge to kiss the gorgeous dimple in his chin. 

What difference does it make? Right, none. 

Small favors, that’s what he’s settling for these days. He gets to be with Geralt. He gets to be his travel companion on most days, his bona fide friend on others. He can live off furtive peeks when Geralt’s paying attention, and abundant ogling when he’s not. It’s enough. Most days, it is. And since they are friends according to Jaskier’s standards, he feels like a proper expression of gratitude is in order. Saving his life might have become a daily occurence to Geralt at this point, but to Jaskier it hasn’t. The least he can do is say thank you.

And that gets him thinking . . . where _is_ Geralt? He’s not here in the room. Jaskier would know if he was. It’s a weird skill he has acquired by constantly being around someone like Geralt, who puts the authority in authority figure. By now, he’s so attuned to Geralt’s presence he can tell with about eighty percent certainty that right now, he’s not close by. His weapons are, though. In the dimness, Jaskier can see what little candlelight remains lending a sheen to the leather sheaths of his swords. Call it witcher cliché, but Jaskier has rarely seen him go more than a handful of steps without his swords on his back, so chances are, he’s not far. 

Cautiously, he tries lifting his bandaged foot. So far, so good. He swings it off the side of the bed next and gets up. Barefoot, he makes his way over to what looks like an en-suite washing area. It’s only separated from the main room by a cherrywood partition with ornamental carving cutouts, presumably to allow torchlight to filter through while retaining a modicum of privacy. Jaskier moves closer to the partition, lips poised to call Geralt’s name. Why he doesn’t, he’ll probably never know. 

Alright, that’s a lie. 

He knows why he doesn’t, and the reason is right there behind the partition, soaking in a too-small tub filled with lavender-scented bath water, all closed eyes, parted lips and loose hair and _Gods,_ the sight of him _._ There are words springing up in Jaskier’s mind, words like _sensual_ and _irresistible,_ with entire melodies blooming around them just from the vision of delight that’s a stark-naked Geralt of Rivia in a damned oaken tub that doesn’t even fit his long, long legs. 

Jaskier almost sighs. What can he say, he’s a bard, a poet, an artist _._ He’s best when he admires and adores, and wow, does he admire and adore _that._

How many times has he been privy to see Geralt like this? How many times was he the one who washed the grime off his body and the knots out of his hair? And how many times does it have to happen again for Jaskier to finally get over it? So many times, so many nights, so many scented oils and bath salts and chamomile rubs, and he’s not even close. 

His knees feel ominously weak now, so he leans against the wall to his right and takes a deep breath. When he looks up, his eyes make direct contact with the superb shape of Geralt’s deltoid muscle and honestly, if he’s made it this far, he can just sneak a peek at his arms too, because _those arms_. He lets his eyes wander over a chest that could have been carved from marble if it weren’t for the smattering of dark chest hair and the scars scattered on pale skin. The steam billowing around the room has left dozens of tiny droplets clinging to them, making them seem almost alive in the flicker of candlelight. Every time Jaskier catches a glimpse, his fingers are itching trace and touch, every single one of them; to learn their shape and texture, their story. 

Just then Geralt shifts with a sigh, splashing water everywhere, and Jaskier comes close to screaming bloody murder. His heart is about a split second away from pounding out of his chest and continuing right here in the open where all and sundry can see what Geralt does to him. 

He shouldn’t even be here. What is he _thinking,_ hiding behind the partition and trying to tire of a sight he knows he’ll never tire of? 

This is pathetic. He is pathetic. This has to end, all of it. Tomorrow. Jaskier will . . . he will . . . The answer is so obvious he can’t even justify lying to himself, and yet, he’ll probably never stop trying. Not where Geralt is concerned.

He allows himself one more look, because that’s apparently what he is now, a voyeur, and takes in everything he can, commits it to memory to dig up for all the pining he is _not_ going to do later. 

His eyes linger on Geralt’s wet lips for one moment, two, a dozen; then he attempts a silent getaway.

 _Attempts_ being the operative word. He doesn’t even make it another step before Geralt speaks, low and without preamble. “Seen enough?” Geralt’s eyes open and go straight for Jaskier’s, like an arrow intent on hitting its mark. _“Jaskier.”_

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He knows. Geralt knows, and Jaskier almost laughs, because what did he expect? He’s a witcher, his senses are far superior to a normal human’s and he’s probably smelled Jaskier from a mile away, him and the metaphorical hand down his pants. 

Jaskier tries to say something, anything _,_ but for what might be the first time in the history of ever, words seem to evade him. He’s reduced to a staring mess of shaking hands and full-body goosebumps and Geralt’s just _looking_ at him, as if nothing is out of the ordinary. As if he hadn’t just been mentally writing an ode to the way Geralt’s naked thighs look when they’re bent over the rim of the bathtub and brazenly dripping water all over the floor. 

It’s one more moment, and then Geralt’s eyes release him. It’s like taking a breath after endless moments of going without. 

_Until._

Until Geralt stands up right there in the tub, the water running in glistening rivulets down the dips and valleys of his body, catching in his body hair, like his chest hair and his arm hair and his—oh _. Oh._

“Goodness,” Jaskier fucking whimpers, because obviously, this isn’t awkward enough yet.

Geralt reaches for a towel and wraps it around his waist, a tiny little thing that’s not at all suitable for the task of wrapping anything, much less anything on Geralt. 

And then he gets out of the tub and comes over, right where Jaskier is more or less huddling against the wall, his feet leaving puddles of water on the wooden floor. Oh fuck, he’s wet and he’s gorgeous and he’s practically naked, and Jaskier feels like he needs to sit down or—or _lie_ down, just to ease the sudden rush of dizziness threatening to bring him to his knees, but then there are Geralt’s eyes, which are back to pinning him _right_ _there_ and Jaskier can’t do anything but lose himself in them. 

So, he stays. He stays and watches Geralt moving closer, inch by inch, until there are no inches left. For a second, Jaskier thinks Geralt is going to put his hands on him, as in crowd him against the wall and scold him; he’s got the look, _that_ look, the one he gets when Jaskier has overstepped the mark and Geralt’s about to give him hell for it. 

He does. 

Every last bit of air he’s still got left in his lungs leaves him on a gasp when Geralt’s hands meet his shoulders to push him back against the wall. There are so many things he’s forced to feel, like Geralt’s scent encroaching on all of his senses in, what? 0.2 seconds? Or the proximity of Geralt’s lips or the bare thigh he’s pressing in between Jaskier’s legs. 

“You were watching me, weren’t you?”

It takes several moments for Jaskier’s brain to register Geralt is speaking to him. He’s been too focused on his lips and how enticing they are when they form words, especially when they do it this close to his own. 

“S-sorry,” he finally manages, and Gods, he sounds wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. “I-I wasn’t planning on—I just . . . I didn’t mean to watch—”

“You didn’t mean to watch, no.” Geralt’s hand plucks Jaskier’s flailing one out of mid-air. Jaskier barely has time to file how nice this feels, his hand in Geralt’s, before Geralt is putting their hands on his chest, still intertwined. The visual image alone; his fingers buried in Geralt’s damp chest hair . . . Jaskier’s trying to curb his need to run his hands _all_ over him, he really is, but how is he supposed to do that when his little finger is brushing Geralt’s nipple? 

“What you meant to do was this, wasn’t it?” Geralt asks, his voice so deep Jaskier wants to drown in it. “You meant to _touch.”_

There are words on Jaskier’s lips—good words, safe words, perfectly adequate words. Words to take the wind out of this situation’s sails, words that allow them to pretend none of this ever happened. They are right there, so prominent Jaskier can feel their weight on his tongue, his mouth opens and he says—

Nothing. 

He can’t, because Geralt has figured out his secret, and the mere touch of his skin against Jaskier’s fingertips is obviously what it takes for him to spill it. 

So, he says yes. “Yes,” voice breathy, barely audible, his fingers drawing an imperfect circle around a dusky nipple. _“Yes.”_

His fingernails leave delicate red lines on pale flesh on their way up to Geralt’s shoulder, his bicep, the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. Geralt is uttering something under his breath that might be Jaskier’s name; he’s not entirely sure with the way his breathing is toeing the line to panting. They are standing close enough for Jaskier to feel every puff of warm air breaking on his lips, and it’s like a siren song, like a perpetual whisper of _come closer_ in his head _._

And Gods, does he want to. He wants to come closer, wants to kiss the perfect Cupid’s bow of Geralt’s lips, wants to delve into his pretty mouth and suck his taste from his tongue, wants to—oh, the things he wants.

Geralt seizes his wandering hand and pins it up against the wall, his lips brushing the soft spot just below his ear. “What are you doing to me?” he breathes. It comes out a little like a growl, and Jaskier shivers. What could have been a witty reply dies a quick death on his lips when Geralt’s mouth trails an achingly soft path down his neck. 

_“Ah,”_ is what he says instead, except it comes out more like a moan. 

“The way you smell . . . _fuck_ ,” Geralt says, then presses his nose into the hair behind Jaskier’s ear and inhales for a long, long moment. “Makes me lose my damn mind.” 

Jaskier has forgotten what words are, let alone how to produce them, so he settles for dropping his gaze and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth to stop those blasted noises from tumbling out, the breathy _mh’s_ and _ah’s,_ the quiet _Geralt’s_ and quieter _oh Gods'_. The problem is that by looking down, he gets an eyeful of the V-cut of Geralt’s abdominal muscles and the little towel doing a piss poor job of hiding a very—no, actually, fuck, that’s a _very_ impressive erection. It’s only by pure chance that he sees Geralt’s towel come off, and it’s only by sheer courtesy that he reaches out to hold it up for him. 

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks in between nibbling along his collarbone and teasing the damp skin with his teeth. 

“I-I’m just . . . protecting your modesty?” Oh, so it turns out Jaskier does still have a voice; it’s just hard to recognize under all that prurience he doesn’t even try to contain. 

Geralt takes a step closer, presses that gorgeous body against Jaskier’s, every glorious inch of it. 

“Don’t,” he says, lips coming to rest on the jut of Jaskier’s cheekbone. 

It’s the go-ahead he’s dying to hear, and still Jaskier can’t bring himself to release that damned towel. Maybe it’s because he knows there’s no going back once he crosses that line. Metaphorically speaking, the towel is Sodden—the last stronghold between the whirlwind of fierce beauty that’s Geralt of Rivia to the south and Jaskier’s crumbling self-restraint to the north. He doesn’t even _want_ to resist. Everything he’s been craving in secret is right here, practically bare and ripe for the picking, and yet. 

And yet. 

There are questions he should probably ponder _before_ he lets go of Geralt’s towel. Questions like what if he’s not meant to have this much? What if this will change everything between them? And Geralt, he wouldn’t . . . he doesn’t—

“You don’t want this,” Jaskier says. It’s taking a good piece out of his heart, walking away from what he wants; what he has _been_ wanting ever since Geralt looked at him that first time in Posada and said “I’m here to drink alone”.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and when that doesn’t get Jaskier to look up, he cups his face in his large hands and _makes_ him look up. Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat. He’s never been this close to Geralt, not when there’s so much blatant intention in his eyes. 

“You’re wrong.” His expression is searching, imploring. Jaskier’s eyes flicker to his full bottom lip for a brief moment. “I have been around for a very long time, and you’re the only one who—I’ve never—” he trails off and curses softly under his breath. Jaskier smiles at him. That’s the Geralt he knows, struggling to express himself but tenacious enough to try when he cares enough to try. 

“Stop laughing at me,” he says. “I’m shit at this thing.”

Now Jaskier’s full-on grinning. He’s also tilting his face just the fraction of an inch to lean into Geralt’s touch, which, miraculously, is still there. “What thing?”

Geralt sighs. “You know what thing. _This_ thing. Feelings.” 

And here Jaskier thought he really wanted to kiss him before. Before was nothing compared to how much he wants to do it now. 

Jaskier decides to have a brave moment and pulls Geralt back against him by the towel he’s still holding onto. He’s trying to keep his eyes fixed on Geralt’s, but those damned things aren’t listening; they’re drawn to the lush curve of Geralt’s lips like a magnet. He’s so close, Jaskier can almost _taste_ him when he whispers, “I think you were about to say something nice about me.” 

“Fuck,” Geralt breathes in response. His hands move up into Jaskier’s hair; fingers coaxing Jaskier’s head to lay back into his palms and Jaskier goes willingly, blinking up at Geralt from beneath his lashes.

Then Geralt moves impossibly closer and alright, they’re practically kissing at this point—if this stops right now, Jaskier is definitely going to tell people he kissed Geralt of Rivia, because breathing each other’s air _counts,_ okay _._

The thing is, Jaskier knows this isn’t how it works. Dreams don’t come true just like that, where you close your eyes and wait for destiny to bestow them upon you without lifting a finger and—and then exactly that happens. He’s closing his eyes, maybe pursing his lips a little, and it’s not even one full heartbeat later that he feels Geralt’s lips on his in a mesmerizing, stupefyingly perfect, _real_ kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I might have left you hanging there with that kiss at the end, but hear me out! I commissioned the lovely and incredibly talented @snovaaprel for fanart of their first kiss to bring this scene to life, and guys! It came out absolutely amazing! Check it out [here.](https://angel-zoo.tumblr.com/post/615920028265660416/i-commissioned-the-lovely-and-incredibly-talented) ♥
> 
> Also! I’m on twitter now, come squee with me: [✉](https://twitter.com/angel__zoo)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless supply of love and gratitude goes out to my fearless beta @emmabeth. B, thank you for your support and cheerleading!

At first, he only means to have a taste, dip his toes in the water and _feel_ , but then his hands are in Geralt’s hair and Geralt’s are on his hips and chances are now that he’s started, he might never be able to stop. He has wanted this for so long—so fucking, fucking _long_ —it’s like the perpetual yearning has attached itself to his heels, inevitable like his shadow and just as untouchable. Until now.

He brushes his lips over Geralt’s, once, twice, licks his bottom lip, traces his Cupid’s bow with the tip of his tongue, learns the shape, smell, taste of him to immortalize it all in the song he’s writing for himself. 

Oh, who is he kidding. He’s written hundreds of songs, all about Geralt, and that was before he even knew the way he tasted. And felt. And moaned, because Gods, that breathy “Jaskier” he’s moaning against Jaskier’s lips right now is worthy of its own hymnal. 

Their kisses get hungrier, wetter, and then Geralt’s hands are tugging at his clothes in a near-frenzy. Self-restraint has never been Jaskier’s strong suit, much less when every single nerve in his body is as weak and wanting as it is right now, but this? This is something else entirely. Never, _never,_ has he needed to get naked and primed as much as he does for this man, because that’s what it is—so much more a _need_ than a _want._

Geralt grunts when the buttons on Jaskier’s velvet doublet refuse to come undone. “I hate buttons,” he mutters. 

Jaskier leans back and enjoys the show with a tottering smile. Only a handful of hours ago, he’d doubted Geralt would be willing to share a room with him, and now he gets front row seats to the spectacle that’s him impatiently pawing at Jaskier’s clothes. 

Jaskier’s life: no one would believe it.

“I wonder if you are just going to rip them off in the next two seconds, given your murderous expression, and how fucking hot that would be.” 

Geralt huffs and gives him a look. His lips are kissed swollen and red, his cheeks pale. The contrast makes for a stunning view. Jaskier wants to touch him so bad it’s like a physical ache in his bones. Belatedly, he realizes he _can_ touch. And he does, fingertips brushing Geralt’s cheekbone to tuck a stray lock of gray hair behind his ear. Geralt’s button-annihilating glare grows a little softer.

“Oh, I do want to rip them off,” he says. “What I don’t want is to ruin another piece of your precious wardrobe in one night.” 

“Oh, _Geralt,”_ Jaskier mock-gasps, clutching his chest. “Don’t tell me you care?” 

“I don’t,” he retorts, finally wrangling another pearl button open. “But you do, and I—” 

_Care about you._

Geralt glances up, the intense amber-gold of his eyes searching Jaskier’s face. He looks like he’s been caught red-handed, like he’s said too much, and Jaskier wonders, _hopes,_ he meant what he did not say. 

“You,” Jaskier says, his heartbeat rising by steady increments, because this? This is it. This is him coming clean, and whatever happens after, this moment will mark the rest of his life. “I want you. So much. _Gods_. You have no idea.” 

Ever since Geralt had caught Jaskier watching him bathe and called him out on it, there has been this string between them, stretching taut, irrevocably pulling them closer. And that string, it’s snapping, right now. Jaskier feels it as if it were a physical sensation leaving an electric tingle all over his skin. 

It turns out that he didn’t know real relief until now. Now, where he’s confessed to the man he’s in love with and gets a kiss in response, a kiss that’s all tongue and heat and devastating urgency, all _I want you too._

“Geralt,” he says. 

“Please,” he says.

And Geralt listens. His splayed hands stroke down the planes of Jaskier’s back to his ass and then Geralt is lifting him up into his arms. Jaskier’s hands move back into Geralt’s loose hair as if they have never left, tugging on the roots just hard enough to make Geralt shudder against him mid-step. Geralt walks them over to the small table in the far corner, and with one sweep of his arm, clears everything off it, which— _wow._ Here he is, witnessing it with his own eyes, and yet it borders on unbelievable to have a witcher all but carelessly sweeping his invaluable swords to the ground to give them a flat surface to fuck on. 

So, a pronounced romantic streak. Geralt has it. 

“Really? The table?” Jaskier asks when Geralt sits him up on the unforgiving birchwood.

Geralt growls and tears Jaskier’s pants off with one-handed finesse and a staggering amount of ferocity, and courteous restraint, what’s courteous restraint? Jaskier can barely keep himself together; it’s just the _things_ Geralt does, they turn him into a version of himself he’s only ever caught transient glimpses of before—the bare, stripped version where the repartee and loquacity cracks open to reveal all the feelings he’s forever trying to hide underneath. 

“Alright,” he gasps, because Geralt has made his way through Jaskier’s silk tunic and his lips are now half a millimeter from his left nipple, “the table it is.” 

Geralt gives him a smirk and then kisses his left pectoral, just where his heart is thump-thump-thumping beneath his skin, before he moves on to his nipple. Jaskier knows what’s coming, he _is_ watching after all, and with rapt attention too, and yet he still bucks off the table when Geralt’s lips close around his nipple. This has always been his weak spot, and Geralt licks and sucks and brushes the flat of his tongue over his flesh as if he knows. Within a few pitiful seconds, Jaskier’s hands tangle in Geralt’s hair, still the tiniest bit damp from his late night bath, and arches his chest into Geralt’s mouth, begging for more. He’s doing it in silence for now, but if Geralt keeps this up, he won’t stay silent for long. 

He’s always been a screamer with the right people. 

Geralt’s fingers dig into Jaskier’s thighs as his talented lips move to his right nipple, leaving a thin thread of saliva in his chest hair. Just this— _just this_ —and Jaskier feels about ready to burst at the seams. 

“Geralt,” he whispers on a half-moan, _“please.”_

With a last kiss to his nipple, now wet and the color of Erveluce red wine, Geralt raises to his full height and just looks at him; spread out on the table, velvet doublet agape, pants dangling from one ankle, skin flushed and moist with sweat. He’s a goddamn picture of debauchery.

Geralt cups his knees; spreads him a little further. Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat. 

“You,” Geralt says, and fuck, his _voice. “You.”_

 _Take me. I’m yours._ It’s on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, but Geralt understands without words. He retrieves the bottle of chamomile oil from his pack and uncaps it. Jaskier watches, spellbound, as a sprinkling of golden droplets trickles down the length of his fingers. It’s the visual image that almost does him in, the way Geralt’s eyes never stray from his even when the oil begins to drip past his wrist and down the length of his arm. 

Jaskier swallows. Tries to focus on the play of light and shadow created by the flickering candlelight on Geralt’s skin. Tries _not_ to focus on how the real-life version of Geralt between his legs puts every dream he’s ever had to shame. 

Geralt draws a slick chamomile-scented circle around Jaskier’s navel. “You look surprised.”

“Oh, do I?” Jaskier bites down on another moan as Geralt guides his finger down to paint a glossy trail through the trimmed thatch of hair between his legs. “It’s— _ah.”_ Now he moans, which, _Gods,_ is an inescapability when Geralt’s massaging the soft spot between his balls and entrance with those masterful fingertips that seem to be hell-bent on driving him insane before the night is through. “It’s you,” he whispers. “Naked. I mean, have you seen yourself lately?” He laughs, giddy. “Your arms shouldn’t be allowed to be on a human being. Or relatively human being. Same difference.” 

Geralt chuckles with this _voice_ of his, this damned beautiful voice, which, by the way, is another thing that shouldn’t be allowed to be on anyone, and gazes at him. Gazes at him when he licks his lips. Gazes at him when he presses the pad of his thumb against Jaskier’s entrance. 

“Relax, Jaskier,” he whispers, “Let me in.” 

Jaskier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. And relaxes. He bites his lip when Geralt’s finger makes it past the initial resistance, then groans when he pushes in deeper, and deeper, and deeper still, all the way to the hilt. It’s ecstasy. It’s too much. It’s not enough. 

When he opens his eyes, Geralt greets him by crushing their mouths together so hard their teeth click, and now _that_ —that makes it even better. 

“Your scent changes when you’re aroused,” he says against Jaskier’s lips when they break away for a frantic breath of air. “It’s . . . intoxicating.” 

“What do I smell like?” Jaskier asks, mainly to distract himself from the feeling of Geralt’s finger moving inside him, working him open with a combination of delicate strokes and single-minded thrusts.

Geralt adds a second finger, and moans along with Jaskier when it hits home. “Sunlight,” he whispers. “Early summer. Dandelions.” 

“Okay, that sounds— _ah, fuck_ —nice. Very nice.”

Jaskier doesn’t feel the third finger. Everything’s mixed together in a fog of desire and need and Geralt—his lips, his hands, the pristine scent of him in Jaskier’s nose. His cock is rock-hard, red and slick with precome. He’s hanging on, barely. 

“You’re exquisite,” Geralt whispers into his ear before he licks a wet stripe down to taste his throat. “Right there, aren’t you? Teetering on the edge. So close to falling.”

Jaskier’s toes curl against the small of Geralt’s back, fingernails digging into his shoulders. He knows he can’t leave marks, but fuck, he’s going to try. His heart is hammering in his chest, a frantic _allegro_ making blood rush in his ears and stars dance across his vision, and he _wants._ He wants so much, so much _more,_ wants Geralt with him, on him, inside him, leaving his imprint buried so deep nobody can ever take it from him. 

“Make me,” he says, gazing up into Geralt’s eyes and wishing he could hold this moment forever. “Make me fall.”

Geralt kisses him again, tongue licking into his mouth as if he can’t get close enough. Jaskier promptly reciprocates by tightening his legs around his waist, pulling him in so close Geralt’s cock presses up against his, and he almost—he _almost . . ._

“Fuck,” he cries, because this is agony and he _can’t possibly_ — 

“Shh,” Geralt soothes. He breathes one more kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth and then pulls back to line himself up. For a breathless moment, the world stops. Then Geralt’s fingers thread through Jaskier’s, hold him tight, and Jaskier exhales a trembling breath. There’s the burn Jaskier knows and doesn’t know at all when Geralt pushes into him, and _of course,_ this is different; it’s Geralt and Geralt is . . . he _is_ different. More. Everything. 

A little more and Jaskier screams, long and throaty, while Geralt’s cock is splitting him open inch by blissful inch, utterly erasing the room around them and the slight discomfort of wood under Jaskier’s back and the lyrics to his newest song and the entirety of his flowery vocabulary as he goes. It’s too much, like a candle burning too close to his skin, and yet he can’t resist swiping his finger through the flame. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, his fingers on Jaskier’s face; warm, grounding, perfect. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier swallows. Forces his eyes to flutter open, even when he knows seeing Geralt’s face on top of being chock-full of him; it’s going to be devastating, and _Gods_ , it is. Geralt’s eyes are bright gold, his lips wet, hair soft and wild, chest damp with sweat and flushed with exertion. 

He’s the most beautiful thing Jaskier’s ever seen, and Jaskier is trying to catch his breath through the smile on his lips and the beatific vertigo in his head. “Getting there.”

“Fuck,” Geralt murmurs, warm breath skating over Jaskier’s skin. “You feel so good.”

Jaskier squeezes his eyes closed. He’s a little bit overwhelmed, by emotion, by joy, by the microexpressions that ghost over Geralt’s face like speckles of sunlight on a cloudy day. If he had known _this_ is what it would be like with Geralt, he would have . . . he doesn’t know what he would have done, perhaps fish for his own djinn to grant him three wishes. 

He’d only ever needed one. Just one. 

And it’s staring him right in the face now, all beautiful determination and white knuckles.

“Jaskier—”

“Yes,” he says, voice nothing more than a whisper, a flicker of warm air on Geralt’s lips. “Please. Do.”

The verbal reassurance is like a dam breaking; Geralt thrusts into him with one snap of his hips and doesn’t stop until he’s buried inside him so deep Jaskier feels the warm weight of his balls against his ass. Jaskier digs his fingers into Geralt’s back harder, moans his name and arches into his hands. Flickers of pain linger, but they’re better now, bearable; it’s just—it’s been so long, but he’s still arching, still grappling at Geralt’s waist, still fucking begging him to come closer, to _be_ closer. He’s full but not _fed_ , and he’s still so hungry. 

“Kiss me,” he chokes out somewhere between another thrust and Geralt threading a hand into his hair, his grip just this side of painful, and when Geralt does, it makes Jaskier clench around him with how good it is _._

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt huffs against Jaskier’s bottom lip. It nearly kills him when his mouth opens slightly, when he feels the unsteady puff of breath on his tongue and knows that’s because of him. It’s so easy to deepen the kiss, so easy to lose himself to the sweet drag of Geralt’s lips on his, the relentless rhythm of thrust and grind that’s held together by a thin, thin thread of control. Geralt is being so very careful, but Jaskier can feel the tension in every line of his body. The threat of all that unleashed strength makes him shudder, makes him hold onto Geralt even tighter as he’s skirting yet another wave trying to wrench him to climax. 

Geralt’s eyes are soft, hazy, his hand cupping Jaskier’s cheek. “Let go.”

Jaskier, as per usual, defies Geralt’s orders. “No.”

Alright, his voice sounds about as wrecked as he feels—which is _very_ —so the ballsy bravado comes out a lot less ballsier than intended, but it’s fine. It’s fine until Geralt notices, smiles a wicked smile and makes it his personal mission to lead him right up to where he can shatter to pieces. 

He’s trying to stave it off anew, but Geralt, the bastard, wraps his hands around Jaskier’s hips and pulls him down harder on his cock, fucks him deeper, finds the right angle at once, as if everything they have been doing up until now was just an opening theme and _this_ is what he’s been building up to. 

Good Gods, this is going to be a finale unparalleled, Jaskier can feel it in the roots of his hair, the tips of his fingers digging into Geralt’s skin. 

“You’re—ah, _fuck,_ Geralt—not playing fair,” he groans over the slightly disconcerting creaking of the table. 

“No, _you_ aren’t,” Geralt groans back. “I want you open-mouthed and wide-eyed for _once_. I want you at a loss for goddamn _words_. I want to watch you falling apart in my arms. And here you are, defying me.”

Geralt accentuates that last bit with a light spank to Jaskier’s ass, and it’s quick and unintentional, almost like an afterthought brought on by the heat of the moment. Jaskier cries out, sharp and loud and so turned on he can _feel_ fat drops of precome dripping down the length of his cock to slick all the places where Geralt’s skin is pressed flush against his. 

“You didn’t seriously think _sex_ was where I’d start letting you off easy, did you?” Jaskier half-laughs, breathless and giddy, hands coasting down the planes of beautiful, scarred flesh to knead Geralt’s ass cheeks. 

Geralt hisses. “Yeah. I don’t know what came over me.” 

He bends down to take Jaskier’s lips in a bruising kiss as if to reprimand him, threading their fingers together and pinning him to the tabletop. 

Resistance is futile after that. Geralt is done playing nice and it’s so good Jaskier forgets to breathe, forgets to hold back, forgets to keep quiet—fuck, he’s probably _so loud_ right now, with how he’s panting Geralt’s name and begging him to give him faster, harder, more; he’s loud until he’s screamed himself hoarse and words fail him just like the tender grip on his self-control that’s slipping through his fingers, and then he gives up, gives _in._ Letting go feels like a blast of sensation, except a blast is temporary and this— _this_ goes on forever and ever and ever, his body clenching and unclenching as shockwave after shockwave rolls through him from top to bottom. It’s a bit like the peaks of rapture he likes to praise within the more suggestive ballads in his repertoire, only better. So much better. It’s thrills of ecstasy, thousands of it. It’s shattering apart, being caught up in Geralt’s powerful arms and pieced back together. 

Gods, he wants to do it all over again.

His eyes open, dazed, Geralt’s hair is in his face, the musk of him in his nose, and Jaskier doesn’t know if he’s _saying_ it or only thinking it when he whispers, “Come on, wolf. Give me every last drop.”

It’s all he can do to hold on as Geralt fucks him through the aftershocks, skin slapping on skin. Jaskier has never seen Geralt’s eyes like this; liquid gold sharp as a sword slicing through tissue, touching everything of vital importance along the way, like his brain and his blood and his heart. It’s bad enough he would have relived the memory of Geralt naked in a bathtub again and again in the days to come. How much worse will it be to remember passion?

He doesn’t get to succumb to the sudden flare of cold fear, not before Geralt succumbs to him. The visual image is as divine as it is unerringly human: Geralt squeezes his eyes closed, throws his head back and comes fulfilling yet another one of Jaskier’s dreams—with his name on his lips. 

Not the lushest blanket can give him what Geralt’s mark is giving him—the feeling of being claimed, needed, _wanted_ —and he falls asleep with Geralt inside him. 

* * *

Jaskier wakes _much_ later just like he did the day before: in bed, alone. 

He’s naked and fuck, so _very_ sore, every muscle aching in a way that makes him giddy with satisfaction. But the bed is empty and cold, meaning he’s been alone for quite a while. If Geralt ever _was_ here in the first place; here, next to him. 

Jaskier shields his eyes against the sunlight and stares up at the ceiling, basking in a whole new set of memories. There’s no way it isn’t going to change him. Irreversibly. It’s already happening. 

The inn downstairs is bustling with noise, but the room is quiet. Geralt isn’t here. He’s gone, again, and it shouldn’t feel as devastating as it does, because Jaskier has been there—he _knows_ what it’s like waking up by himself after a night of Geralt within exhilarating proximity. 

It was sex. Earth-shattering, life-changing sex, but still. Just sex. And Jaskier isn’t _trying_ to get his hopes up; he’s fighting it, in fact, but for all the times he’s succeeded in the past, he’s failing now. Miserably. 

As always, he fights down the sting in his eyes. As always, he feels vulnerable. He shouldn’t be naked when Geralt eventually returns—and he will, because his swords are still here on the floor—it will just make things stilted and weird, and if there’s anything he can’t bear right now, it’s stilted and weird. He sits up and gets out of bed. Which would have been a perfect start, if he’d done it in a tempo befitting his present condition. 

The moment he tries to stand, his legs give out from under him and there he goes tumbling to the floor in a mess of sticky skin and aching limbs. And, of course, because destiny is apparently not through with him yet, this is where Geralt steps through the door. 

“Fuck,” he utters, and Jaskier just _knows_ the face that goes along with that particular intonation of the curse, and he’s not even _looking._ He’s doing something else, something better. He’s playing dead. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says and rushes over. And then he’s doing it _again_ —this time including going down on both knees—he’s lifting Jaskier into his arms and laying him down on the bed with utmost care, his fingers brushing Jaskier’s hair out of his face. 

Jaskier sighs. Inwardly, of course. 

Geralt does, too. “I told you playing dead doesn’t work on me. I can _hear_ your heartbeat.”

_Dammit._

Jaskier opens his eyes and gets his first good look at post-sex Geralt, and really, what did he expect? 

He looks all kinds of beautiful, dressed in his loose black shirt and high-waisted pants, hair a haphazardly tied back mess, face gorgeous and perfect and more serene than Jaskier ever remembers seeing it. He fancies there’s even a slight tint of rosé on Geralt’s cheeks. 

“Pfft. Always spoiling my fun with your mutant ways.” 

Geralt cracks a smile. “Hmmm. I prefer being a mutant to being a man with bread in his pants.”

Jaskier actually gasps. “White One.”

“Pie without filling.”

“Butcher of Blaviken. And fine shoes.”

_“Julian.”_

Using his birth name. Unforgivable. And very artful. 

“You, _master_ witcher,” Jaskier mocks, “are relentless. Fine. You win.”

“Great,” Geralt says, “now that that’s out of the way—”

And then he leans down over Jaskier and _kisses_ him. He gets a whole puff of air before Jaskier gets with the program, because how is he supposed to be suave when Geralt is slipping him tongue? 

All he can do is stare when Geralt stops after a few blissful moments, eyes wide and lips wet. 

Geralt, meanwhile, is tracing the slant of Jaskier’s collarbone with his fingertips. Before Jaskier can say anything, Geralt kisses him again, so soft and slow the feeling of it lingers even after he’s pulled back. 

“Got you something,” Geralt says, licking his lips as if kissing Jaskier is a perfectly normal, everyday thing they do. 

“Bread?” Jaskier asks dryly. 

Geralt gives a laugh. “That, too. But also . . .” and this is where he trails off, which, _oh,_ fun, “this.”

He hands Jaskier a wooden box with a bow on top. Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, because he knows what this might be, he just can’t believe it. His eyes snap back to Geralt’s, heart beating a mile a minute. “Geralt.”

“Open it.”

Jaskier swallows, and unties the bow. When he lifts the lid off the box, he has to suppress an indecent moan, tears of joy and throwing Geralt down and riding him for the next two _hours,_ all at the same time. 

There, nestled into the softest red silk, is a pair of hand-crafted sheepskin suede boots, complete with the Redanian hallmark of excellence stamped into the soft leather. 

“I can’t believe you . . . oh, Gods. _Geralt.”_

But Geralt is only smiling, his hand moving up to bury in Jaskier’s hair, bringing him in for an embrace that lands Jaskier’s face in the crook of his neck. He traces Geralt’s jugular with the tip of his nose, and there’s nothing in the world that can stop him from inhaling as deeply as he can and then holding it, steeping his lungs with Geralt’s scent for endless moments, before letting it out and then doing it all over again.

“You like them?” 

“I _love_ them. Thank you.”

“Good,” Geralt says into Jaskier’s mouth, because he’s already back to kissing him. 

“Lovely,” Jaskier breathes in return, hands twisting in Geralt’s shirt and pulling it out of where it’s tucked into his pants.

They only break apart for a moment while Jaskier pushes the shirt over Geralt’s head, and there it is, that sublime chest he’s going to write the most perfect song about. 

But then he gets his hands down Geralt’s pants; Geralt resorts to his moaned version of Jaskier’s name, and Jaskier decides the most perfect song might have already been written. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh, I just love myself a sweet, sweet HEA. This is it, guys! A big thank you to every single one of you who dropped by to read, comment and/or leave kudos. You are amazing. The number of ideas I have for these boys is frankly terrifying, so chances are, there will be a lot more fics in the near future. Make sure to subscribe if you don't want to miss anything :) 
> 
> Drop me a comment if you enjoyed. I love hearing from you! I’m also on twitter, come squee with me: [✉](https://twitter.com/angel__zoo)
> 
> Once again, THANK YOU. <3


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